


The Spy That Loved Me

by ddagent



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Betrayal, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval op. But when had Bernie Wolfe's life ever been simple?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So yesterday an Anon messaged me, saying how awesome a Berena Mr and Mrs Smith AU would be. My brain latched on, and this is the result. It's less gunfire and sex, more Spooks, but hopefully it'll still be entertaining!
> 
> Also, first fic of 2017 ftw!

Her phone vibrated against her thigh, disturbing her train of thought. Bernie winced, sliding a hand into her trouser pocket to dig out the offending item. She’d never been particularly au fait with technology, although her children assured her that this was one of the better models. 4G, front facing camera. Didn’t mean much to her. It took three attempts for Bernie to actually answer the damn thing.

“Afternoon.”

She could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. _“Morning. It’s good to hear you.”_

Bernie took a moment, closing her eyes to savour the voice nearly four thousand miles away. “It’s good to hear you, too. How’s the hospital? You’ve got that budget meeting this morning, yes?”

A low groan. Bernie could just picture Serena’s agonised face as she leant against her kitchen counter, already on her second mug of coffee as she tried to prepare herself for the day ahead. “ _Yes, that’s today. But, thankfully I have them all wrapped around my little finger.”_

“They’re not the only ones.”

A laugh this time. God, she had missed that laugh. _“Three more days, Bernie. And then I’m_ home _._ ”

Bernie felt her shoulders sag in relief at the thought of Serena coming home. _Their home._ Their reasonably priced house in Stepney; with the bed they’d picked out together and the collage of pictures of their children stuck to the fridge. It was a lovely home. _A perfect home_. But Bernie was finding it increasingly cold without her wife’s presence. She had accepted, in sickness and in health, Serena’s work in the States. Bernie would never make her choose, _never_. Marcus had. With _her._ And now she was happily married to Serena.

So she never asked. She coped with the lack of warmth, with all the empty rooms. It just made the reunion even sweeter. “Let me know when your flight gets in, I’ll pick you up from Heathrow.”

“ _Wonderful. Just a quick thought, darling, while you’re on the phone. Would you mind running the hoover round? And disposing of whatever dishes have grown penicillin in the kitchen?”_

Bernie rolled her eyes. “That was _once._ ”

 _“We had our own eco-system! Biologists wanted to use our sink for a research paper.”_ Bernie smiled. She hoped Serena was smiling too. “ _I thought soldiers were supposed to be tidy.”_

“I just have more important things on my mind. Like getting my wife home and into our bed.” Out of the corner of her eye, Bernie could see a figure approach. Dark, sweeping coat. Well-polished shoes. She didn’t have to turn her head to know who it was. “Listen, Serena, I have to go.”

_“They calling you into surgery?”_

Bernie’s mouth was fixed into a thin line. “You know how it is. I love you, Serena.”

“ _I love you too.”_

She quickly pressed the _end call_ button, taking only a moment to stare at the photograph of her wife before sliding the phone into her back pocket. Bernie held her position, elbows resting on the railings. Beside her, Henrik Hanssen took up a similar position. It was a cold day in London, and both wore thick coats on the Millennium Bridge. To any of the pedestrians walking by, they would look like two friends having a quick chat, maybe contemplating a failed marriage or a mistake at work. No one, not unless they got too close, would be able to determine their real reason for meeting.

“How is Mrs Wolfe?”

“She’s fine.” Bernie reached into her other pocket, sliding out the packet of fags she kept there. She lit one, offered the pack to Hanssen. He shook his head. “It would be easier if I wasn’t lying to her.”

No reaction. _Of course not._ “Your wife does not have the required clearance to learn about your work with the security services. Whilst I appreciate that this is a difficult matter, this is also part of your profession.”

“I’m fully aware of my profession, thank you.” Bernie took a long drag of her cigarette. “I take it you have a job for me.”

A manila envelope appeared in the gap of Hanssen’s coat. Bernie checked her peripherals before taking it from his outstretched hand, flicking it open with a twist of her wrist. An address; a list of file names. “One of our assets in the CIA revealed the address of one of their section chiefs. I’d like you to retrieve a series of files from their home computer and, if possible, electronically tag the residence.”

“I thought we had a _special relationship_ with the CIA.”

“We do.” Hanssen cleared his throat. “But, ever since the American populace took it upon themselves to elect an orangutan to their highest office, we believe it is necessary to keep a closer eye on our cousins across the pond. Do you have any concerns?”

Bernie looked over the specs of the house, of the security system installed and possible points of entry. She’d broken into more secure places. As retrieval ops went, this was practically an afternoon at a spa. But then her days of playing James Bond had ended the day she took that bullet in Damascus. So she just nodded, sliding the file into her own coat. “It’ll be done in twenty-four hours.”

“Good.” Hanssen nodded. “Just in time for your wife’s return.”

 _Serena._ Of all the lies she had ever told, telling Serena she worked for a NHS trust rather than MI6 was the one she regretted the most.

\-- 

Bernie would be off the grid for twenty-four hours. Eight hour flight from Heathrow to D.C, another eight hours back. That would provide her an eight hour window in between – more than enough time to break, enter, bug, and retrieve. She did all the prerequisites before she left: returned Cam’s text, saying she’d have coffee with him and Serena this weekend; let Serena know that her daughter had called to j _ust speak to her._ Elinor had never really warmed to Bernie, preferring her other stepmother. She liked to think that if Ellie knew that Bernie was really an international spy, maybe she would gain a few more brownie points.

Pity she was nothing more than a former army medic who had swept her mother off her feet.

Once she was able to be radio silent for the next twenty-four hours, all that was left was to gather the particulars. A carry-on bag with a quick change of clothes. Her I.D. for the trip, _Kate Stewart._ Bank cards, driving licence, even a smiling picture of two blonde children that didn’t exist. As she left the house, Bernie frowned at the growing pile of washing up going green in the sink and made a mental note to sort it out (or buy replacement china) upon her return. For now she couldn’t worry about such domestic matters. She had an operation to complete.

Over the flight, Bernie familiarised herself with their target. The section chief, a woman around Bernie’s age, lived alone in a brownstone located in an upmarket area of the capital. There were no visitors to the house other than the driver dropping her off every evening, and picking her up again in the morning. There was a loose description of the woman in the file, but neither Copeland nor Digby had been able to get a clear shot. _Excellent counter-intelligence. Intriguing._

Bernie touched down in Dulles International Airport at approximately seven o’clock, although her body told her she should be in bed already. Agent Digby met her at the gate. “Evening Ms _Stewart._ Pleasant flight?”

“Pleasant enough, Morven. How’s the target looking?”

“Good. We’ve been watching her for the last few days. Never a clear picture, but we’ve got her movements. She shouldn’t be back until approximately ten o’clock tonight.”

Bernie nodded, building pace as she made her way through the terminal. Morven struggled to keep up. “Okay, this is how we’re going to play it.  I want you and Copeland monitoring the street, checking for any suspect activity. I’ll breach the house and get what we need.”

Two paces behind her, Morven frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better for two of us to enter? Get the job done faster?”

“One person entering means less chance of any screw ups. I was on a retrieval job last month and one of the newbies put her foot through the loft ceiling. One person is also easier to explain to any curious neighbours. Or the target.” Bernie stopped the moment they left the terminal, turning to Morven. “Are you comfortable with that?”

A nod. “Yes Ms Wolfe.” 

Bernie knew she carried a certain reputation. She’d worked in the Middle East for the last few years; a dangerous place to be for both spy and civilian. Since her return to the U.K, she’d garnered an even greater reputation for taking on operations that normal agents would usually consider too risky. But without risk, there was no reward. In her personal life, that reward had been Serena. _Serena._ As they pulled away from the terminal, Bernie fired off a quick text to her wife.

_Massive accident; will be in trauma bay all night. Talk tomorrow? x_

_Will call first thing. I’d send you luck but you so rarely need it. S xx_

\--

In an unmarked sedan, the three MI6 agents assessed the situation in front of them. There were no lights on in the suspect’s house, and their immediate neighbours were also dark. Bernie was comfortable with their assessment and their reconnaissance. _No time like the present._ Morven provided her with an earpiece, and Copeland gave her a handful of letters for their target’s alias that she could use as cover. _Elly Chandler._ Cute.

“We have a two hour window, I intend to use it. Any movement, let me know.”

Copeland and Digby nodded. Bernie pushed open the car door, feeling the cold against the _Georgetown_ hoodie she had opted to wear as cover. Retrieval jobs were always better in the summer; and the early evening light always provided a challenge. But tonight Bernie just huddled into the sweatshirt as she made her approach. She noted how well-kept the brownstone was; with a tidy front garden and a well swept porch _._ Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. At least until Bernie picked the lock.

“I’m in,” she whispered, taking great care to close the door behind her.

_“Good work. Be advised; neighbour across the street has just left, walking his dog. Recommend going dark?”_

Bernie smirked. “If you’re breaking in, Morven, you _never_ put on the lights.”

As cocky as she felt breaking into a CIA section chief’s home, Bernie knew better than to get ahead of herself. She checked the alarm first, surprised to find that it was unset. The security system was quite considerable, although not unbreakable. It should be set. _Something doesn’t feel right here._ Bernie hesitated in the doorway, ears straining for any sound of another person in the house. Met with only silence, Bernie continued her approach.

It took her two minutes and thirty-seven seconds to find the home office. “Right, I’m in the study.”

“ _There are no exterior windows onto the street from the office. You should be clear.”_

Bernie turned on the adjacent desk lamp, flooding the room with soft light. With deft hands, Bernie began to search the desk. The drawers were locked; the paperwork all filed away. _My desk has never looked like this._ She’d search the drawers, and the files on the wall, later. Bernie wanted to check the computer first. She moved the mouse, expecting to contact Copeland and Digby to assist in breaking her password. _Bloody technology._

But no password was needed. The computer was on, a photograph of Paris reflecting back at her. “Something isn’t right. Are we sure she’s not here?”

“ _She doesn’t return until ten o’clock; you should be fine.”_

“It’s the _should_ that worries me.”

It was then that Bernie heard a noise. The creak of the back door opening; the clack of shoes against a linoleum floor. Swearing under her breath, Bernie moved like lightning. She turned off the desk lamp, swallowing the room into darkness once more. She also turned off the monitor, hoping her presence wouldn’t be noticed by their target. Her exit strategy was quickly cut off as she heard their target in the hall. Her only option, as ridiculous as it sounded, was to hide behind the door.

“I’m not asking for you two to be best friends; all I’m _asking_ is for you to be civil to the woman I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life with.” The door creaked, their target entering the study. Bernie held her breath. “Honestly, I fail to see the problem.”

Bernie prayed to whatever deity still listened to her that their target didn’t put on the desk lamp. She did, however, check the computer; giving her profile an almost heavenly glow. Brunette, short hair. Bernie expected a power suit and a glass of whiskey; not the delicate blouse and glass of wine. _Maybe they had the wrong house._

“I’ll be home this weekend; we can have lunch then. Yes you _could_ come visit me here, but I’d rather you didn’t waste your money.” Their target leant back in her chair, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Bernie will be there. She’s my _wife,_ Elinor! I am rather sick and tired of us having this same conversation.”

Bernie froze behind the door. Her limbs, usually so quick to motion, were stiff and rooted to the floor. Her eyes were the only fluid part of her body; darting around for any evidence for or against the conclusions in front of her. In the dim light of the monitor, Bernie could make out a photograph of Elinor by the desk. The bottle of Shiraz practically sealed her fate. _Breathe. This is not what it seems._ They must have got the wrong house. Her wife was a hospital CEO. This was just a case of mistaken identity.

_You still need to get out of here before she sees you._

Bernie watched as her wife, her soft features now clear, ended her call to her daughter. She shook her head, her hand immediately reaching for the glass of wine. After two sips, the house phone rang. She picked it up. “This better be important.”

_Three more minutes and then I’m asking Dom and Morven to set off a car alarm._

“I thought I made it very clear that he was to be crossed off.” _No._ “It’s a simple piece of wet work; any fresh face from the Farm could do this job. So what is the problem?” _No. No. Not her._ “Fine, I’ll come in. Send a car; I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Serena left the room; the sound of her footsteps present on the stairs. Bernie didn’t take the opportunity to get out. She just stood behind the door, rooted in shock. Her wife, _her amazing wife,_ worked for the CIA. She tried to be angry, tried to feel resentful that Serena had lied to her. Instead, she just felt hollow. _Of course she worked for the CIA. Why else would Serena Campbell be with her, unless it was her job to be?_

Bernie completed her work. She waited until the town car picked Serena up, found the files and planted the bugs. A part of her wanted to check the house for signs of someone else; signs of _her._ But she didn’t. She left the house, locking it behind her. She then began to walk in the opposite direction of the parked sedan. They could pick her up later. Right now, Bernie wanted to _run._


End file.
